


This Is The End, Beautiful Friend

by Eisenschrott



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mild non-con, Past Relationship(s), Sleep Groping, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 22:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10345443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: On Jakku not long before the final battle, the Empire is not quite in its most flattering shape; neither is the former hero of Hoth. Moff Juno tries to help.





	

“Cunts! Poodoo-eaters!”

“Now there there, General—”

“Criminally incompetent Huttfuckers!”

“Come sit down with Daddy Hillar and we'll have another glass—”

“I won the battle of Hoth while they were sitting on their mynock-bitten arses on Arkanis or wherever the fuck, and now they think they have a right to tell me what to do?”

“Deep breaths, lad, and don't be unfair—”

“I’ll give them _unfair_ with a thermal detonator up their exhaust ports now, since the Rebels don’t want to show their scum faces yet—leave me! Let go, I said!”

That’s the closest to sexual intercourse we’ll ever have had, my beautiful friend Maximilian Veers and I: him, struggling to break free of my limbs wrapped around his big, powerful body from behind; me, doing my utmost to keep him from stomping out of this bunker and staggering back into the war room two stormtroopers escorted him out of a few standard hours and several glasses of my secret recipe grog ago.

Our close physical proximity allows me to rub my groin against his arse, and my shorter height works to my advantage; my proton torpedo is more or less level to the exhaust port where I'd launch it, if we were in the nude—in this desert heat it wouldn’t be a bad idea—and in the mood.

“You’re not going back to the war room,” I say in his ear, my cheek pressed to his neck. The feel of his muscles and the throbbing blood vessels underneath is beautiful, that of unshaven stubble a little less so. “The briefing is over. And you have embarrassed yourself enough for today, don’t you think?”

“Banthashit, old man! Who... who in the blithering nine hells are you to... to lecture me about embarrassed? Embarrassing. Embryo... Fuck.”

His legs give way and he lets out a blubbering sound he must have intended to be more profanity. My hold on him turns into a crutch. I drag him to the bunk, where he flops down on his right side with a pained sigh, his feet dangling over the edge of the mattress. I am panting from the physical effort, sweating and a bit snug in my pants from the bodily contact. I take off my trousers, smiling at Veers when the noise of the zipper makes him squint at me.

“Don’t, Juno.” He snarls like a cornered beast attempting one last time to scare off the predators closing in. (Or so Wilhuff Tarkin explained to me during that safari on Eriadu. Could get up to quite interesting things, old Wilhuff.)

“ _You_ don’t.”

The snarl takes an interrogative inflection.

“You aren’t going to verbally abuse anyone else tonight, Maximilian. Grand Moff Randd already wants you court-martialled, and in this chaos, he damn well can do it. Hate to admit it, but nobody will lift a finger to stop the firing squad.”

“But you—and Brenn...”

“Oh, Maximilian, you drove that poor bastard nuts. I’m surprised he hasn’t poured poison in your booze yet.” I shrug. “My Winnie did once, that bitch. Though that was nothing but good sport.”

Veers laughs, slides an elbow up the mattress, tries to get up but only succeeds in lifting his upper body. A sheen of sweat covers his face, his short greying hair sticks to his scalp. This is how he must look when he’s being made love to; the more I gaze at that face, the more my cock lets it be known it wants to rub all over it and insert itself between those parted heavy-breathing lips.

“I won’t allow you to be tried and shot for treason, my lad. You’re way too handsome. It would be an unforgivable waste,” I say as I fold my trousers and hang them in the travel wardrobe the bitch let me bring from Coruscant.

“Know what really was an unforgivable waste?” Veers slurs. “Endor.”

“I swear I saw that coming.”

On my way back to the bunk, I stop at the foldable table, pick up the half-empty bottle, shake it until I hear the foam fizz inside it, and pour the grog into the two dirty glasses on the table. “You know, Maximilian, most of us are bitter about it. Defeated by a ragtag band of Rebels and their allies, the cannibal teddy bears, bah! Nobody would buy that plot twist in a holomovie. But I don’t quite understand why Endor gets _you_ so worked up. Why you rolled downhill so fast afterwards.”

I pick up the glasses, sticky with dried Chandrilan sugar paste, and offer one to Veers. He doesn't look at me; his bloodshot eyes are locked onto the primary liquid target fizzling ominously inside the glass. “Give me,” he mutters. It sounds more like a plea than a threat.

“Have you heard what I just asked you? Oh, never mind.” I pass him the glass. His hand is trembling, which is why I only filled it halfway; not a drop spills on the short, shaky trip to Veers’ mouth.

After downing the grog he remains still with his head rolled backwards, his neck stretched. I want to kiss and lick him there, but I wait, ready to jump if he should buck forward and puke his booze-pickled guts out.

Veers shudders, drops the glass, plants that big hand onto the mattress and clutches it like a gust of wind might blow him away at any moment. I know from experience how heavy the drunkenness weighs on his eyelids, and in amusement I watch him blink. Following his gaze, I notice he’s crosshairing the one full glass of grog left.

“Well, my lad, I suppose you can have this, too. How selfish of you, Maximilian, leaving your good friend Hillar dry-mouthed.”

His eyes don’t leave the glass as he tries reaching for it. The attempt fails. He sags back down on the bed, barely managing to prop his torso. Just half of himself is up, the part that does the drinking and the yelling, while the part that does the fucking lies inert on a stranger’s bed. Poor Maximilian.

“Help me,” he says.

“Why, of course! But don’t complain about the way I help you.” I remove the empty glass and sit at the bedside, cup the back of Veers’ head in my palm and gently push it upright. “Haha, you’re so noisy when you drink; slurping. It would be such a delicious noise if you were sucking my bell-end.”

Of course I mean it—stars, have you _seen_ his mouth?—but it’s also a test. Once the glass is emptied, Veers’ head drops into my hand, eyes shut, his breathing deepening and slowing. That’s the only test result I need. I lay his head on the pillow, pull his dangling leg onto the mattress, and push and prod his beautiful body into what I presume is a more comfortable position. While I busy myself with this compassionate task, a long, muscular arm clad in Imperial olive drab drops onto my lap; the gracefulness is the same as that of the abated Emperor’s statue being torn down on Coruscant after Endor.

The fingers grasp  my open tunic. I hear surprise in my own voice, “Maximilian, dear?”

A soft, engine-like rumble. “...Firmus...”

It’s my turn to blink. Realisation takes a few seconds to dawn; well, I am an old man after all. Firmus. Firmus Piett. The admiral of the _Executor_. Went down with her at Endor.

“Oh.”

Veers had spent four years on that ship and been sent off on medical leave shortly before the poodoo-show began. I heard him rant more than once that, had the damned MedCorps released him in time, he would have flipped over the outcome of the battle (so naïve, I know). I recall his voice cracking when he shouted the _Executor_ wouldn’t have been destroyed, and _he_ wouldn’t have lost Admiral Piett.

“So there was more than concern for the fleet’s capabilities to that, eh, Maximilian?”

The engine noise stabilises into a snore. Veers’ mouth is open, drool at the corner trickles onto the pillow. I picture myself in Admiral Piett’s place, watching this same face sleep like this. I’ve always thought that Rimworlder pirate-catching upstart had guts and brains, and deserved to deliver Ozzel a harsh kick to the afterburners. The bitch, to this day, insists he got the post by giving Lord Vader the pipe job of a lifetime in that meditation chamber. But no, he must’ve given that to Veers. Comradely tears sting my eyes; I bring my mechno-hand to my forehead and solemnly salute Piett, wherever in the Unifying Force he may be.

Veers is still clinging to me, his arm around my waist. Poor darling. He must wish that _wherever_ were here beside him on this bed.

I kick off my sandals and lie on my side, facing Veers. Of course the bunk is big enough to accommodate two grown Humans, who do you think I am?

Veers’ breath reeks of booze and a hint of rations that haven’t been brushed off his teeth for awhile. His skin and uniform stinks of sweat and unwashed underclothes. Commandant Hux has a point when he describes Veers as _slovenly_. When he does, his nose wrinkles as if the word itself carried the stench so typical of drifters and hobos.

I make a mental note for tomorrow: have Major Tantor get a stormtrooper and drag the general to a shower, give them a shaving kit and an order to keep mum, and present a clean General Veers who at least resembles his holoposters. Tomorrow, or whenever Veers is ambulatory enough to leave my quarters. Well, well, there's no rush. The Empire or what’s left of it may want to kick Veers out, but I like him here, stinking up my bed, snoring while I curl up in as comfortable a position as possible and throw an arm around him.

The snoring peaks into a grunt—Maximilian, sweetheart, aren’t you a bit tall and pretty for a Gamorrean?—and peters out to a quiet rhythmic hiss. I wonder if breathing in another body’s smell, soaking up its warmth, feeling its presence in the Force if your midichlorian count is so inclined, does possess its much vaunted calming effect now. You’d think I know whether it’s true or not, but I’m usually too drunk to notice.

My brow furrows. What sort of pet name would Piett have called Veers? Veers responded when I called him ‘dear’, so I make an attempt. “Max, dear.” I exaggerate my own Coruscanti accent, which Piett was so good at painting over his Axxilan brogue. “It will all be fine. I’m here.”

No reply, no reaction. It might be a good sign, but my gut feeling suggests we aren’t there yet. I guess that what Veers felt for Piett was not extended to the totality of Navy men, eh? I stroke his back, savour the strong muscles under my palm, and it’s a natural consequence that my hand slides lower until it’s cupping one supple, durasteel-hard arse cheek, then the other, sensing the marvellous heat of the crevice but not plunging fingertips into it.

“...Firmus...”

I lift my head to take in his face; he’s fast asleep still, but the frown I haven’t seen relax on his face ever since he set foot on Jakku is gone.

I press a light, close-lipped kiss to his cheek, one that won’t spoil the taste of the full-mouth kiss he might be recollecting in his dreams. Then I lie back in the warm stench of his soft, regular breaths, etching the shape and feel of his arse into my flesh-and-bone hand. Old folks, like young folks and middle-aged folks, are allowed to grow sentimental and I do now. Maximilian, my beautiful friend, I would protect you from everything and everyone. From Rax, Sloane, Randd, Hux, the Rebels—which is why I vouch for you in the war council. And to protect you from your own misery and bitterness, which is why I fed you my special recipe grog, whose smell blows back on my face at your every breath.

“You won’t be any good when the Rebels find us and attack, my dear.” I think of the neatly sealed packets of glitterstim in one of my password-protected suitcases under the bunk. “Maybe I should help you again in a way you may not like.”

Lost in imaginary tenderness, Veers sleeps on. Quietly at first, he resumes snoring.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [The Doors](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSUIQgEVDM4) for the title.


End file.
